Dawn painted the city's grimy edges in shades of bruised purple and sickly orange as Abel walked. The profound silence within him, the absence of the pack bond, was a raw, open wound beneath the exhaustion from Ava's ritual. Every nerve felt scraped thin, hyper-aware yet strangely muffled, like listening to the world through thick glass. The city's symphony – the rumble of early traffic, the clatter of delivery trucks, the rising murmur of humanity – felt distant, irrelevant. He was a ghost moving through a world that no longer knew his scent.
The money in his backpack – the carefully converted trust fund – was substantial, but untraceable only went so far. He needed liquid assets, human currency, for the immediate journey and the initial purchase of anonymity in the North. And he carried another kind of currency: Tiber occult treasures.
Small, potent artifacts, gleaned over years from the mansion's hidden vaults or discreet acquisitions. Objects Kenneth considered trophies or tools, but Abel had quietly siphoned away, knowing their value lay beyond mere power. They were his emergency fund, his ticket to land.
His first stop was a pawn shop tucked into a grimy alley near the old docks. "Marco's Loans & Curios" proclaimed a faded sign. The bell jangled discordantly as he entered. The air inside was thick with dust, desperation, and the cloying scent of old metal and mildew. Behind a scarred glass counter littered with cheap jewelry and battered electronics sat a man with eyes like chips of flint and fingers stained yellow with nicotine.
Abel didn't speak. He slid a small, velvet pouch onto the counter. Inside lay a silver pendant, intricately wrought with symbols that seemed to writhe under the flickering fluorescent light – a minor ward against psychic intrusion, pilfered from a rival pack's emissary years ago.
Marco picked it up with surprising delicacy, pulling a jeweler's loupe from his vest pocket. He examined it, his expression unreadable. "Interesting work. Old. Not exactly... mainstream." He weighed it in his hand. "Hundred bucks."
Abel met his gaze, his own carefully devoid of the predatory intensity that would have made Marco flinch. He simply radiated calm, weary indifference. "Five hundred. Or I take it to someone who recognizes its provenance."
Marco's flinty eyes narrowed. He sniffed, perhaps unconsciously testing the air, but finding only the scent of damp wool and distant exhaust. "Three-fifty. Final offer. It's pretty, but niche."
"Done." Abel needed speed, not haggling wars. He pocketed the cash, the greasy bills feeling alien in his hand.
The second shop, "Relics & Rarities," was in a slightly better part of town, specializing in militaria and dubious antiques. The proprietor, Mrs. Gable, was a sharp-eyed woman with dyed red hair and the air of someone who'd seen every con. Abel presented a smooth, palm-sized obsidian disk, faintly warm to the touch – a focus stone used by pack seers to clarify visions during the full moon.
Mrs. Gable's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. She handled it with gloves. "Now this is unusual. Mayan? Aztec?"
"Older," Abel murmured. "A scrying aid. Rare."
She probed, testing his knowledge, but Abel revealed nothing, sticking to vague truths. The disk was a scrying aid. Its true origin remained unspoken. After ten tense minutes of appraisal and veiled threats about authenticity certificates he couldn't provide, she offered twelve hundred dollars. Abel countered with fifteen. They settled on thirteen-fifty.
He hit two more shops, each transaction a calculated risk. A set of bone dice carved with lunar phases netted eight hundred from a nervous-looking collector who kept glancing at the door. A vial of iridescent powder – crushed moonstone and rare lichen used in binding rituals – sold for a surprising two thousand to a gaunt man in a back room who smelled faintly of ozone and decay, his eyes gleaming with unhealthy fascination. Abel didn't ask questions; he took the cash and left quickly, the man's lingering gaze prickling the back of his neck.
By mid-afternoon, Abel's backpack felt heavier, not with gear, but with thick wads of cash tucked into hidden compartments amidst his survival essentials. He'd accumulated nearly five thousand dollars on top of his existing funds – a small fortune in the human world for immediate needs, a pittance for buying land, but a crucial buffer. He kept a single, small artifact: a smooth, river-polished stone etched with a single rune of grounding. It felt cool and calming against his skin, a tiny anchor in the disorienting silence within him.
He moved with purpose now, heading towards the city's vast, echoing train terminal. Grand Central Station, a monument to human ambition and transit, swallowed him whole. The cavernous space thrummed with a different kind of energy – the frantic pulse of travel, the drone of announcements, the smell of fast food, perfume, and humanity packed tight. Abel felt exposed, a lone predator adrift in a herd of oblivious prey. Every uniformed security guard, every person who glanced his way for a second too long, sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system. Had they been alerted? Was the hunt already converging?
He kept his head down, his worn jacket collar turned up, blending into the crowd as much as a six-foot-two man with an aura of contained intensity could. He bought a ticket for the overnight train to Montreal with cash, choosing a seat in a standard coach car – anonymous, unremarkable. The destination was a stepping stone. His true goal lay far beyond the Canadian border, deep into the vast, sparsely populated boreal forests of Quebec and Labrador, places where the Tiber name held no sway, and the wilderness offered true refuge.
Boarding the train was an exercise in controlled tension. He scanned the platform, the other passengers, the staff. Nothing seemed overtly threatening, just the usual bustle. He found his seat by the window, stowed his backpack overhead, and sank down, trying to mimic the weary resignation of the other travelers. The rhythmic clatter of the train starting to move was a profound relief. Each mile gained was a mile further from the gilded cage, a mile deeper into anonymity.
As the city skyline shrank and then vanished, replaced by the sprawling, grey suburbs and then open countryside, Abel finally allowed himself a shallow breath. He watched the world blur past – factories giving way to fields, then to dense patches of woodland. The disconnection was profound. No pack link whispered updates, no familial bonds tugged at his awareness. Just the void, the rhythmic rumble of the train, and the vast, indifferent landscape unfolding outside.
He tried to sleep, but true rest was impossible. The silence within was too loud. Memories surfaced unbidden: his mother's face, pale with worry he'd dismissed as overprotectiveness; Roman's boisterous challenge during a training session; the cold disapproval in Kenneth's eyes when Abel questioned a particularly ruthless business tactic. The guilt was a physical ache, warring with the fierce conviction that his escape was necessary, the only path to integrity. He touched the cool grounding stone beneath his shirt.
The hours bled together. He ate a tasteless sandwich bought from a trolley, drank lukewarm water. He watched the sun set, painting the sky in fiery hues that seemed incongruous with his inner turmoil. Night fell, plunging the carriage into semi-darkness punctuated by reading lights and the dim glow of phone screens.
Crossing the border was the next crucible. As the train slowed for customs and immigration at the frontier, Abel's senses heightened again. He rehearsed his cover story in his mind: a backpacker heading north for hiking, funded by savings. He had a fake ID procured through discreet, non-supernatural channels months ago – "Daniel Reeve" – and the cash was carefully distributed. He presented his passport and ID when the border officers moved through the carriage, his expression carefully neutral, his heartbeat a controlled drum against his ribs.
The officer, a stern-faced woman with tired eyes, scanned his documents, then looked at him. "Purpose of your visit to Canada, Mr. Reeve?"
"Hiking," Abel replied, his voice calm, slightly rough with feigned tiredness. "The Laurentians. Heard they're beautiful this time of year." He gestured vaguely towards his backpack.
"Duration?"
"Undecided. A few weeks, maybe longer. See how the trails treat me." He offered a small, weary smile.
She scrutinized his face, then the documents again. The silence stretched. Abel focused on the scent of stale coffee and industrial cleaner, on the feel of the cheap train seat fabric beneath his fingers. He willed his scent to remain nothing but wool, dust, and human fatigue.
"Alright," she said finally, stamping his passport with a decisive thud. "Enjoy your hike, Mr. Reeve."
Relief, cold and sharp, washed over him as she moved on. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. He was through. Abel Tiber was officially gone, left behind at the border. Daniel Reeve, a man with no history and no scent, entered Canada.
The train pushed deeper into the Quebec night. Abel stared out at the dark landscape, now dotted with the occasional cluster of lights from small towns. The forests grew thicker, darker, pressing closer to the tracks. This was the threshold. Montreal was just a transit point. Tomorrow, he'd disappear into the network of buses heading further north, towards the true wilderness, towards the land he needed to find and claim. The money in his pack was a tangible weight, a promise of a future. He thought of the cold, clear air, the endless trees, the silence that wouldn't be an absence, but a presence. The hunt was inevitable, but for now, the wheels carried him north, away from the past, towards the scent of pine, snow, and the fragile, terrifying scent of freedom taking root. He traced the smooth edge of the grounding stone, a silent vow forming in the quiet space where his pack bond used to hum: I will find the land. I will build something different. The rhythmic clatter of the train became the drumbeat of his flight, steady, relentless, carrying him into the unknown dark.